Testimony of Phillip Wayne As Told to Leslie Tompkins
by Anthony P
Summary: A confessional letter to Leslie Tompkins by Bruce Wayne's secret twin.


**Testimony of Phillip Wayne As Told to Leslie Tompkins**

There was no else to tell, no one else who deserves to know at this point, more so than you. You were always the most patient with me when I was a child, the most tolerant of my mischief and silly pranks. Forgive me for putting the burden of this knowledge on you, but there simply wasn't anyone else. I suspect that Alfred has known all along, but he would never let on. Denial can be very comforting during times of great distress. He even reached a point where he called me "Bruce" without a moment of hesitation. He preferred the delusion to the truth, as would the rest of Gotham, if they only knew.

My name is Phillip Thomas Wayne. This is the first time I've written this name down since my brother Bruce and I were homeschooled by Alfred, many years ago. From that fateful day on, my signature would read Bruce Robert Wayne, and I would reap all the glory and benefits that came with this title. Yes, Bruce was a twin. There aren't many people who know this. His brother Phillip "died" an untimely death, shortly after his parents were brutally murdered in a Gotham alleyway. I simply disappeared that night and left a note behind by a would-be kidnapper who, unbeknownst to the rest of the public, had no intention of delivering the Wayne boy alive— even if his demands were met.

It was an easily digestible story: son of billionaire captured and never seen again. No one questioned it, despite how little evidence there was to support this story. Thomas and Martha Wayne, along with their son Phillip, had been erased from the world, leaving only their grieving son and brother, Bruce, to be raised by his guardian, Alfred Pennyworth. I never reveled in the success of my ruse. It simply had to be if I was to inherit the life I deserved, the one my parents had been prepared to deny me. Bruce was a few minutes older than me, making him the eldest. He stood to inherit everything worthwhile, from the family business to the majority of their fortune. In turn, I would acquire the consolation prize—enough money to live on comfortably for the rest of my life, yet without the prestige and social benefits. Those would go to Bruce, the family darling. Our parents loved us equally, but the Wayne family was not without its silly traditions, one of them being the way in which fortunes were distributed among siblings. It was within my father's power to ignore this tradition, but far be it for him to commit such an ungodly crime. He would sooner give his fortune to a stranger on the street. I had to act, no matter how drastic the lengths I needed to go. I would never convince my father to change his will. Bruce would have his status and money, no matter what. The only option I was presented with was to _become_Bruce and allow Phillip to perish.

I knew they were planning to see "The Mark of Zorro" that night. Bruce talked about nothing else for weeks beforehand. I was expected to attend as well, but the evening before, I developed a severe case of stomach cramps. Alfred was asked to watch over me, unaware that I knew where mother kept her sleeping pills. I also knew where Alfred kept his gin. Father liked to avoid the traffic and busy sidewalks of Gotham, so I even knew which way they would travel to and from the theatre. It was summer, and how my family enjoyed their long walks—especially at night.

I was a good shot at close range. Father had insisted on raising my brother and I to be gentlemen, and a proper gentleman could fire a pistol or rifle with adequate skill. I was better than Bruce, a fact with which I had always taken great satisfaction. We even owned our own guns, which father allowed us to keep in our bedrooms.

It was all so simple, Leslie. I had always feared that someone, in time, would figure it out. The most difficult part of my plan was disposing of Bruce's corpse. Where would a boy of ten hide the body of so famous a child in a public alleyway without being seen? Fortunately, I was a gifted writer as well and volunteered to be pen pals with some of the seedier residents of Arkham Asylum, a program ironically arranged and funded by my father. Always the philanthropist, he had hoped that correspondence with the outside world would assist in the rehabilitation of these monsters. As an avid fan of crime noir, I had requested my pen pal be affiliated with organized crime. The cleverly coded promise of a substantial amount of money upon the deed's completion, and I had someone lined up to make Bruce's body disappear. I told them where to meet me that night, and they had a car waiting. They were gone before the police arrived, their pockets filled with whatever I could find in my father's bedside safe, to which I had made it a point to learn the combination weeks prior.

After shooting all three of them, and Bruce's body was removed from the crime scene, I underwent a profound transformation. I knew that Gotham would never believe I was Bruce unless _I_ believed I was Bruce. I had convinced myself that it was Phillip Wayne whose body was taken away in the trunk of that car. I knelt beside the bodies of my parents and embraced the shock and confusion that Bruce would have felt, had he been in my place. The final step in convincing both me and the world that my pain and grief were genuine was the dramatic creation of Gotham's vigilante. He would be born from the fire and rage of having had my parents taken away from me. He would be the personification of my hatred for crime, the dark phoenix that would rise from the ashes of my agony and need for vengeance. At first, I had believed that I would need to mask my identity from the public, but then my illusion would never be complete. The world needed to know who the man was behind the mask. I was taking a great risk; I lived alone with Alfred. Anyone could attack me in my home, if they were intelligent and creative enough. I am especially violent in my efforts to thwart criminal activity, however, a reputation that has likely served to discourage any such attempts.

But something has changed. It first began with an anonymous letter. "I know the truth," it said. This was followed by a series of similar letters, each claiming to possess knowledge of my secret and their intentions to expose me. I've never come in contact with a foe like this before, never one with so great an advantage. They're fighting me from the shadows, wearing me down psychologically, without throwing a single punch. Just when I assume it's over, another letter arrives. After boasting of knowing my secret, the letters began explaining how my undoing would be carried out—starting with my mental destruction, then financial demise, and eventually my physical death. I am capable of finding this person and stopping them; my skills of deduction are so well honed that this would be simple. They have explained in great detail _how_ they plan to ruin me. I could even trace the source of the letters…if I wanted to. And that's just it, Leslie, I'm not sure I want to stop them. Deep down, all these years, the guilt has been simmering just beneath the surface. I thought I was colder than this, harder, but it doesn't seem so. The idea of being found out, of being punished, has begun to sound cathartic. I was paranoid at first, desperate to guard my secret; however, the alternative has slowly but surely woven its way through my psyche. I have stood as a figure of justice for so long, yet I managed to avoid justice for my own crimes. This is perhaps why I am writing to you. I want someone to know what I have done, someone who might forgive me, despite the heinousness of my acts. When this mysterious person finds me, and find me they will, I may put up a fight. I may allow the caped crusader to die in battle, but at least someone other than my killer will know the truth behind the "hero's" existence, someone worthy of this knowledge. Do with my legend what you will—tell the world or let the masked vigilante die a noble death. My fate, after I am gone, I place in your hands. For what it's worth, I am truly sorry.


End file.
